Ammunition

14

Porter Nash had been going through Brant’s cases, trying to find who might have the most cause to actually take out a contract on him. It had to be serious if you were to risk offing a cop. Thing was, almost every single case, with Brant’s unique style of policing, gave rise to a suspect. It was fast becoming… who wouldn’t want to shoot him?

Jesus, Porter had wanted to take a pop himself.

These files were, of course, only the official ones, 90 per cent of Brant’s activities were… as they say… off the books. He wasn’t exactly the type of cop who wrote up a report on his actions. His spectre loomed large over South-East London. There wasn’t a villain, snitch, or hooker who didn’t know of him or about him. The two people who probably knew him best, if anyone ever knew him, were Roberts and Falls, and they were saying very little. Falls when Porter had approached her, snapped:

‘What, you working for Internal Affairs now?’

Shut that right down.

And Roberts, his reply:

‘Are you questioning me?’

Real big help.

But with the scant data at his disposal, Porter could already put some names on the list. One, a Spanish woman who’d tried to poison Brant and got eight years for her troubles. She was now out and present whereabouts… unknown. Second, the legendary top villain, Bill, who’d more or less run the South-East till Brant closed him down. Like most retired villains, he was living it large on the Costa del Sol. Easy enough to arrange a hit from sunny Spain, all you needed was the cash. The actual shooter, Terry Dunne, was simply a gun for hire. Porter checked his file, he had lived with his girlfriend in Clapham, Porter noted the address, figured it wouldn’t hurt to pay her a visit, see if she knew who contracted her late lover. Third, and here, Porter’s interest grew, The Case of the Clap-ham Rapist. A vicious serial rapist had been terrorizing the Clapham, Balham areas, Falls was used as a decoy, with McDonald as backup. McDonald had fucked up, and Falls had been literally pinned down by the rapist, a knife to her throat, when Brant appeared, and here’s where it got murky… in the ensuing melee, the rapist had fallen on his own knife. It stank to high heaven and no investigation had followed as the public were so relieved to have the rapist off the radar.

Porter checked his name.

Barry Lewis, thirty-two years old, a short-order cook. He had one brother, Rodney, a trader in the city. Porter sat back, he’d heard the tapes of the calls made to Roberts. A posh voice, arrogant air… yeah, sounded like all the financial wankers Porter had the misfortune to know.

He underlined Rodney’s name, and address, lived in an apartment in Mayfair, lots of cash is how that translated. Porter said aloud:

‘Rodney, I must pay you a visit.’

Old Rodney certainly had the wedge to hire a shooter and, Christ, he certainly had motive. Waiting all these years made sense. Who’d believe he wouldn’t have acted at the time. Porter’s instincts told him this was definitely looking promising. His phone rang, and speak of the devil, it was Brant, who said:

‘I’m being discharged today.’

Porter said:

‘That’s great, how do you feel?’

A pause as he heard Brant inhale what must have been a lethal amount of nicotine, then:

‘Feel?… I feel fucking pissed off, when are you coming to collect me?’

Porter didn’t know he’d been assigned the task, said:

‘I didn’t know I’d been assigned the task?’

Brant whistled, it pierced Porter’s eardrum, then:

‘Oh, it’s a task is it?’

Porter closed the files, tried:

‘I didn’t mean that, I’m on my way.’

If Brant was grateful, he wasn’t expressing it, said:

‘Get some coffee en route. The shite they serve here isn’t fit for Pakis.’

Porter sighed, he never got used to the casual racialism of his fellow officers. He asked:

‘Anything else?’

Letting the sarcasm leak all over the question, Brant said:

‘A slice of Danish and, mind, real coffee, none of that designer crap you pofftahs drink.’

Click.

Porter wondered for the hundredth time how on earth he managed to sustain his friendship with this… pig?

He ran into Roberts on his way out, said he was en route to collect Brant. Roberts gave a grim, knowing smile, asked:

‘And how is he?’

‘Rude as hell.’

‘Ah, he’s recovered then.’

When Porter arrived at the hospital, he was in a foul mood, a git had cut him in traffic and worse, given him the finger. Jesus, if he’d had time, he’d have gone after the prick, done him for every traffic violation in the manual.

His diabetes was really acting up something fierce, he was way past his check-up time, his glucose levels were through the fucking roof.

Stress, the number one enemy of insulin protection and he was under more stress than Tony Blair. Then he parked in the hospital, conscious he was way late for Brant, and a parking guy came running over, shouting:

‘Hoy, you… the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’

Porter swirled on him, the guy was small but built, and his whole body language suggested he’d had one shit life and everybody was going to pay the freight, Porter whipped out his warrant card, said:

‘You talking to me?’

The guy backed off a bit, not too much but sufficient, said:

‘That space is for hospital staff, not even cops are supposed to use it.’

He had a voice that was made to whine, Porter reined in a little, asked:

‘You get mugged, who you gonna call?’

The guy wasn’t buying it, sneered:

‘Well, not the boys in blue, that’s for sure, they only look out for the rich.’

Porter nearly laughed, a damn socialist to boot, he said:

‘Do yourself a favour fellah, piss off.’

The guy had more to say but decided to let it slide, went with:

‘I’ll let it go this time… ’

Porter shook his head, walked away.

He wasn’t sure but the guy might have shouted:

‘Arse bandit.’

Brant was resplendent in a new suit, a very expensive one, blue shirt, and the police federation tie, heavy brogue shoes, hand-made, you could tell from the stitching, but his face looked waxen, he was chatting to a nurse, scoring heavily from the look on her face. He turned to Porter, said:

‘This is Mary, an Irish girl, gave me a sponge bath.’

Is there an answer to this, any reply that doesn’t sound bitter? Porter asked:

‘You good to go?’

Brant stood up, and Mary said:

‘I’ll get the wheelchair.’

Brant looked at Porter, said:

‘Regulations. They have to wheel you off the premises.’

He lowered himself into the chair and when Mary went to push it, he waved her off, said:

‘My officer will do it, he’s built for speed.’

A not so funny joke between them. Brant had persuaded an agent to buy a book from him, the problem being, he hadn’t written anything, had lured Porter to his home, spiked his coffee with speed, and jotted down Porter’s war stories. The book titled Calibre was due for publication soon. When Porter had finally confronted Brant about literally stealing his material, Brant had shrugged:

‘It’s a novel, who gives a fuck.’

Porter still hadn’t quite decided what he was going to do about it. He knew from bitter experience, you never won against Brant, one way or another, he’d fuck you over and sometimes, it was simply best to just bend over.

He wheeled Brant slowly till Brant snapped:

‘The fuck is the matter with you, mate, push the frigging thing, stop behaving like an old woman.’

Porter debated just letting go, see what would happen, maybe the № 9 bus was due and would do them all a favour.

He finally got Brant in the car and put the vehicle in gear, burned rubber out of there.

First thing, Brant lit a cigarette, despite the decals all over the dash, commanding no SMOKING, PLEASE!

Brant said:

‘I hear you saved my life.’

Porter was stunned, of all the things he expected from the sergeant, this had never entered his radar, he shrugged, said:

‘More reflex than anything else.’

If he was expecting gratitude, it wasn’t coming. Brant asked:

‘You figure I owe you now?’

There was a real granite edge to his words, that Mick attitude spilling all over his intonation. Porter said:

‘The Chinese believe if you save a person, you’re responsible for them from then on.’

He knew it sounded like a crock.

Brant stubbed his cig out on the carpet of the car, Porter nearly hit him and Brant said:

‘I don’t like to owe anybody, you hear me?’

Porter felt he finally, in all their tangled relationship, gotten a slight upper hand but he’d have to tread real carefully. Brant would bite at the very moment you least expected. He said:

‘I might be on to the guy who ordered the hit.’

Then he ran through the names he’d jotted down, Brant listened with total concentration.

A focused Brant was a very dangerous animal.

He said:

‘Swing the car round.’

Porter, surprised, went:

‘What?’

‘You deaf, turn the fucking thing around, let’s go see the Clapham Rapist’s brother, Rodney, is it?’

Porter swung round, a U-turn in the middle of heavy traffic, followed by howls of car horns. Brant put out his middle finger to all. Porter asked:

‘Shouldn’t we get some more evidence before we confront him?’

Brant snorted:

‘Fuck that, I’ll know if he’s the cunt.’

Thesheer vehemence of his words and the obscenity Porter loathed made him swerve dangerously but he reined in, pulled the car back on track, said:

‘He lives in Mayfair.’

Brant was shaking his head, said:

‘No good, let’s go to his office, do the whole cop heavy deal, let his colleagues see who he is.’

Porter was very uneasy, intimidation, though he used it, never sat easily, and he tried:

‘But what if he’s innocent?’

Brant laughed, an ugly cackle, said:

‘Then he’s nothing to worry about, has he?’

Porter was nearing the city, the smell of money in the air, the bombings had dented the traders… sure… but not for long… money recovers faster than anything else on the planet.

Ask Donald Trump.

Brant leaned over, turned on the radio, and, of course, didn’t ask:

‘You kidding?’

The song playing was ‘First Cut Is the Deepest’ and to Porter’s amazement, Brant listened intently, and… looked like he was suffering, then he snapped the radio off, asked:

‘Know who wrote that song?’

Without hesitation, Porter said:

‘Rod Stewart?’

Brant was delighted, said:

‘Everybody thinks that. Bet you twenty quid it wasn’t.’

Porter was so relieved to see him come out of the suffering mode that he agreed to the wager and asked:

‘So, who do you think wrote it?’

Brant was lighting another cig and Porter would have sold his soul for a drag, Brant exhaled, said:

‘I don’t think, I know who did.’

Porter found a space near Rodney Lewis’s office, prodded:

‘Yeah, so is it like a secret or do we have a bet?’

Brant laughed, said:

‘Fucking money from a baby, money for old rope… it was Cat Stevens.’

Porter felt he already had the twenty in his wallet… Cat Stevens… yeah, right.